Pain au Chocolat
by gentlewinnix
Summary: Nix drops in at Dick's patisserie on his birthday, and Dick has an idea. Winnix.


**Author's Note:** Just a quick little fic for Nix's 101st birthday, which I will never miss. ❤️ Except that one time in 2017 when I did. But that was a horrible year, so I think he can forgive me. This is technically set in the 'verse of a longfic that I'm outlining, so you might see more of this particular setting in the distant future. (I'm going for a novel-length slow burn, if you're wondering.) Sadly, this is unedited and probably a bit rough, because I was in a bit of a rush.

Tags include: AU - Modern Setting, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Fluff, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Obligatory Birthday Fic, Wholesome Gay Content.

* * *

It's raining outside when the doorbell rings—3PM on a Friday, and Dick knows before he looks up that it's Lewis Nixon. He looks up in time to see him duck into the bakery, soaked to the bone and swearing. Dick huffs a quiet laugh, watching Nix peel off his sweater and run a hand through his hair, trying to shake out some of the water. He deposits the sweater on the back of a chair and looks up at Dick. Nix scowls, though it's more of a pout than anything else on his round face and soft features.

"Forgot an umbrella?" Dick asks, smiling.

Nix rolls his eyes. "And a rain jacket. I _swear_ the forecast called for warm and sunny today. I'm just here for my pastry fix." He stomps up to the counter, miffed expression fading as his eyes rake over the pastries and tarts on display by the register.

"Think I'll try three of the spinach and feta scrolls," he says, eyeing them curiously. "And a coffee. Black, no sugar."

"Not a fan of sweets, are you?" Dick asks, pulling on gloves.

"Nah," Nix says. "Though I do like one of those chocolate-filled croissants every now and then."

"_Pain au chocolat_," Dick comments, picking out three of the scrolls for Nix. "That's what they're called."

"And I'm supposed to be the Yale man."

Dick smirks. "That'll be thirteen fifty-six."

"You're going to bankrupt me," Nix grumbles, handing over his card obligingly.

"I'm sure you'll be glad to know that all of my employees are paid a living wage."

"You're a saint, Dick."

Dick shrugs. "Just doing what's right." He hands Lew's card back along with the box of pastries and coffee. "Same time tomorrow?"

"Oh, shit," Nix groans. "No, unfortunately. I have a dinner date with dear old Dad. It's my birthday." He casts a shy glance at Dick. "Forty-one years I've graced the planet with my presence."

"Well, happy birthday," Dick offers, smiling.

Nix smiles crookedly. "Thanks." He holds Dick's gaze for a moment too long, his cheeks flushed—from the cold, Dick tells himself—before he coughs, looking away. He puts his card back in his wallet and grabs the pastry box. "Running late for a publisher meeting. I'll see you around," he says.

"Next week?" Dick asks, hopeful.

"Sure. Next week," Nix confirms. He hesitates for a beat, eyes locked on Dick's face, then turns on his heel and rushes out. Dick frowns, feeling inexplicably bereft—as he does every time Nix leaves after getting his daily "pastry fix"—and busies himself with tidying the café tables. He spots Nix's sweater, forgotten on the chair by the door. It's dripping wet, a small puddle on the floor already. Dick sighs fondly, taking it back to the kitchen to wring out in the sink.

* * *

Dinner with Stanhope Nixon goes just about as well as Lew was expecting, which is to say that after a mostly silent dinner they both get drunker and drunker and fight until Lew storms out and goes home to take out his frustrations on his laptop keyboard for a while and cuddle with his dog.

On Sunday he thinks about stopping by the patisserie and saying hello to Dick, but he remembers as he's pulling his shoes on that it's closed on Sundays and he curses. He wonders briefly if Dick would like to see him outside of work sometime, but he catches himself, squashing the thought. He'd sworn off dating, he reminds himself firmly. And besides, Dick's probably married. Lew can just imagine it—a beautiful wife who's just as kind as Dick is, a passel of red-haired toddlers, and a dog—or maybe a cat—the white picket fence and sprawling green backyard. Dick Winters is the embodiment of the American Dream, and Lew doesn't stand a chance. His chest tightens, and he realizes the thought doesn't make him feel any better.

"Christ," Lew swears.

Inevitably, he's drawn back to the patisserie on Monday. Dick looks up immediately, a dazzling smile crossing his face, and Lew's heart leaps in his chest.

"Nix!" Dick greets happily. "How was your birthday?"

"It was fine," Lew lies vaguely, going up to the counter.

"You forgot this," Dick says, pulling something out from under the counter—Lew's sweater. Lew takes it, noticing that it's been folded and smells clean.

"I washed it," Dick offers, smiling. "The rain made it smell kind of weird."

"Oh. Thanks."

"I've got something else for you, too," Dick says. "It's in the back, let me go grab it."

"Sure thing." Lew watches as Dick turns the corner, disappearing into the kitchen. He unfolds his sweater, lifting the collar to his face and sniffing. Dick uses a different detergent than he does, and it smells warm, sweet. Like the man himself. Lew folds it back up carefully, tucking it under one arm. Dick comes back out a moment later, a pastry box in his hands.

"Here you are," he says, holding it out.

Lew takes it and opens the lid, looking inside to see four chocolate-filled croissants, perfectly shaped and baked to a crisp golden-brown, lightly dusted with powdered sugar. "_Pain au chocolat_," he observes, his eyebrows raising. "You remembered."

"Made them myself," Dick says. "No charge. Consider it a late birthday present."

"You shouldn't have," Lew shakes his head, still smiling. He closes the box, looking up at Dick again.

"I was happy to do it. Besides, you gave me a bit of a craving," Dick admits sheepishly. "I'm a fiend for chocolate. I've eaten the rest of them already."

Lew huffs a laugh, imagining Dick pawing pastries into his mouth distractedly while doing the paperwork he loathes so much. It shocks him sometimes how easily he can imagine these domestic scenarios. It's not something he's ever really felt before, and he turns it over in his mind curiously.

"Gene's got the register covered today," Dick says, drawing Lew out of his reverie. "I was just about to take my break. Want to sit together?"

Lew smiles. "Sure," he agrees, pleased.

To hell with being single.


End file.
